Says M. Radisson, with a depth of reverence which words cannot tell, “Men,” says he, “thank God for this deliverance!”

* * * * * *

So unused to man’s presence were the caribou, or perhaps so stupefied by the storm, they let us wander to the centre of the herd, round which the great bucks had formed a cordon with their backs to the wind to protect the does and the young.  The heat from the multitude of bodies warmed us back to life, and I make no doubt the finding of that herd was God Almighty’s provision for our safety.

For three days we wandered with nothing to eat but wild birds done to death by the gale. [1] On the third day the storm abated; but it was still snowing too heavily for us to see a man’s length away.  Two or three times the caribou tossed up their heads sniffing the air suspiciously, and La Chesnaye fell to cursing lest the wolf-pack should stampede the herd.  At this Gillam, whose hulking body had wasted from lack of bulky rations, began to whimper—­

“If the wolf-pack come we are lost!”

“Man,” says Radisson sternly, “say thy prayers and thank God we are alive!”

The caribou began to rove aimlessly for a time, then they were off with a rush that bare gave us chance to escape the army of clicking hoofs.  We were left unprotected in the falling snow.

The primal instincts come uppermost at such times, and like the wild creatures of the woods facing a foe, instantaneously we wheeled back to back, alert for the enemy that had frightened the caribou.

“Hist!” whispers Radisson.  “Look!”

Ben Gillam leaped into the air as if he had been shot, shrieking out:  “It’s him!  It’s him!  Shoot him!  The thief!  The traitor!  It’s him!”

He dashed forward, followed by the rest of us, hardly sure whether Ben were sane.

Three figures loomed through the snowy darkness, white and silent as the snow itself—­vague as phantoms in mist—­pointing at us like wraiths of death—­spirit hunters incarnate of that vast wilderness riding the riotous storm over land and sea.  One swung a weapon aloft.  There was the scream as of a woman’s cry—­and the shrieking wind had swept the snow-clouds about us in a blind fury that blotted all sight.  And when the combing billows of drift passed, the apparition had faded.  We four stood alone staring in space with strange questionings.

“Egad!” gasped Radisson, “I don’t mind when the wind howls like a wolf, but when it takes to the death-scream, with snow like the skirts of a shroud——­”

“May the Lord have mercy on us!” muttered La Chesnaye, crossing himself.  “It is sign of death!  That was a woman’s figure.  It is sign of death!”

“Sign of death!” raged Ben, stamping his impotent fury, “’tis him—­’tis him!  The Judas Iscariot, and he’s left us to die so that he may steal the furs!”

“Hold quiet!” ordered M. Radisson.  “Look, you rantipole—­who is that?”